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COPYRIGHT 1909 

BY 

MARGARET CURME WIRTZ 


TfiANSFER,7fD FROM 
OOPVfliQHf OrFIGE 
•AR 15 >9)3 


INTRODUCTION 


Nations differ from each other in customs and man- 
ners, but the elemental passions are the same in all 
human beings. This little story of German life has a 
universal interest and should sink deep into every heart. 
The one great lesson in it — ^^Give the child love” — 
prompted the desire to place it before American readers 
and it is hoped the lesson will be of especial value to all 
those in whose care little ones have been intrusted. 

This tragic little tale, with its impressive and pathetic 
descriptions and its successful portrayal of child life, is 
one of the most popular stories in modern German liter- 
ature and is sure to hold the attention of younger as 
well as older readers. 

The permission to make this translation was given 
by the author himself shortly before his death and I 
commend to all, this masterpiece of Ernst Von Wilden- 
bruch — ^^Der Letzte.’’ 

MAKGARET CUEME WIRTZ. 



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THE CAPTAIN’S 
LAST CHILD 


How often when ont walking I met old Mr. Bauer, 

the rector of the preparatory school at and 

how glad I was whenever I saw him coming in the 
distance ! 

I was passionately fond of walking and almost always 
chose exactly the same path; by doing so we learn to 
know every stone and every leaf along the way, we feel 
doubly the reviving joy of spring when we see the swell- 
ing buds upon the very bush which we had seen in win- 
ter raising its leafless branches toward the sky; we ob- 
serve how from day to day the buds have unfolded, how 
little leaves appear, how they grow larger and become 
darker : and thus, looking every day into the silent work- 
shop of creative nature, we read as on a large dial the 
restless change of time. Whether it was these feelings 
which induced the rector to take regularly; almost daily, 
the way which I had chosen for my walk, I do not know ; 
at any rate the path must have pleased him and it was 
indeed very beautiful. 


8 


gflyg OIaylain*fl Hagt 


Along the right bank of the large stream which rolls 
its grey waters through the eastern part of the North- 
German lowlands toward the Baltic Sea, a high dike 
had been constructed in order to protect the bottom- 
lands on this bank from the overflowing of the river 
during the spring floods. The dike stretched farther 
than the eye could reach since the right shore is quite 
flat there for miles, while the left consists of high bluffs 
at the foot of which was situated the city in which we 
both lived, the rector and I. At certain places the dike 
approached quite close to the stream, following its wind- 
ings, like a guard who has been put in charge of a 
dangerous customer and who is unwilling to trust him 
out of his sight: at other places there remained larger 
or smaller spaces which were abandoned to the annually 
recurring overflow. These were wild, desolate strips on 
which nothing flourished because the sand-deposits of 
the stream made vegetation impossible and where only 
thickets of willow and alder grew. The fact is ^The 
stream was treacherous,’’ as they were accustomed to 
say in that region. Although it was often so shallow 
in summer that the boatmen could push their boats 
along only with great difficulty, it would suddenly come 
rushing along wildly and madly in the spring and some- 
times even later when it had been raining in the moun- 
tains. Then its surly waters became brown and yellow, 
bubbles arose and twirled together, and the arms of the 
greedy stream reached out over the low shore as far as 


gil|g (^^upMnB HaBt 


9 


possible, like those of a beggar who has suddenly become 
rich and now would like to have everything at once. At 
such times it was especially beautiful on the dike; one 
could see the angry waters rise higher and higher on 
the earth-walls, and when the north wind came racing 
along over the flat land and threw the refractory waves 
of the river back against the dike, when the roaring of 
the storm and the rushing of the waters united into one, 
dismal, monotonous, powerful sound of nature filling all 
the space between heaven and earth, then one felt some- 
thing of the primitive condition of the elements, some- 
thing of the thrilling sensation of danger. 

It was on such a day as this that we met again and 
spoke for the first time, after we had passed each other 
innumerable times silently and with a secret smile. I 
was on the way out; he was returning to the city. As 
I was passing him he stopped. ^‘If you intend to go 
further,” he said with a strained voice, for the whistling 
wind tore the sound of the words from his lips, ^‘1 would 
like to warn you; the dike has just sprung a leak near 
the willow cliff and the deuce of a river is doing its best 
to make the opening larger. I am on my way to give 
the alarm in the city.” 

Before he had finished speaking I had already faced 
about and started to return with him; the wind was at 
our backs and drove us ahead like two ships with sails 
outspread. On the way he told me the particulars : the 
stream was still carrying occasional cakes of ice; one 


10 




of these, which had been ground as sharp as a piece of 
glass during its journey, had driven against the project- 
ing slope of the dike and had cut deeply into it; the 
water had rushed into the hole and suddenly a consider- 
able part of the slope had fallen in. 

‘^Did you see it yourself?” I asked. 

^^No,” he answered, “but I know that from experi- 
ence; for thirty years I have been watching the river.” 

“And 3^ou do not seem to have learned to love it dur- 
ing that time?” I said as I remembered his description 
of a moment before. 

“It is an ugly, treacherous stream,” he replied, “and 
has caused much loss and sorrow.” 

In the meantime we had reached the city and had 
gone to the city-hall, where a special guard was organ- 
ized at such times; workmen were at once sent out and 
the conjectures of the old rector were entirely confirmed ; 
it was high time that help came in order to prevent a 
break in the dike. The opening was stopped up with 
fascines. 

So we were acquainted and I had become the richer 
by a friend. The way and manner of the old man, his 
quiet firmness, his calm way of speaking attracted me 
to his personality, and this affection grew warmer day 
by day as I met him often now and joined him on his 
walks. His simplicity had nothing in common with 
prosiness; his dark, blue eyes had the keen glance of 
those who associate much and attentively with nature, 




11 


and his thin features had the unobtrusive smile of one 
who had experienced much and whose heart possesses a 
good memory. 

He conducted, as has been said, the preparatory 
school of the Gymnasium;* to his care were entrusted 
the boys who were to be initiated into the first elements 
of knowledge — reading, writing, and the first four rules 
of arithmetic — in order that they might then enter the 
lowest classes of the gymnasium; those little fellows 
whom one sees walking thru the streets in the morn- 
ing with their book-satchels of velvet and badger-skin. 
It is easy, therefore, to understand what importance old 
Mr. Bauer had for the parents of these little proteges 
of his; and many times they spoke of him in the family 
circle — always with respect and reverence. But it was 
positively surprising with what devoted love the chil- 
dren themselves clung to the old man. I had an 
opportunity to convince myself of that: the dike ran to 
the edge of the suburb and as soon as the children, who 
played and romped in the streets and before the front 
doors during the afternoon hours, saw the rector com- 
ing in the distance, the whole crowd would rush forward 
to meet him. Games were interrupted, quarrels were 
postponed for a while, and the children came galloping 
up from all directions as fast as their little legs could 
carry them. 

* The German Gymnasium corresponds to the American High 
School. 


12 


©If? (Eaptatn*ja IHaBt CUlfU^ 


His popularity extended far beyond the limits of the 
preparatory school and across the dividing line of sex; 
all the little folk, trousered and trouserless, booted and 
barefoot, boys and girls, gathered quickly in order to 
bring ^^the teacher’^ their tribute of love. So it hap- 
pened that we were surrounded every time by a swarm- 
ing crowd of little humanity, and I shall never forget 
how the little hands were stretched forth in order to be 
laid in his, how the bright childish eyes, in sweet mod- 
esty and yet beaming with joy, were raised to him with 
that gentle, confiding expression which the face of a 
child assumes when it feels that the grown-up person 
understands it. 

In the midst of this assault of tenderness he now 
stood, his body bending slightly forward, like an old 
church tower surrounded by twittering swallows, the 
corners of his mouth drawn down in a roguish smile, 
his eyes full of infinite kindness: here and there he 
took hold of a curly head with his outspread fingers: 
now and then he would put his hand under a chin and 
raise up a little face: little was spoken: but when he 
addressed one or another of the children he knew and 
called them all by name. He showed special friendli- 
ness to those little creatures who were too timid to 
force their way to him through the crowd and who 
stood outside the circle looking up at him from the 
distance. He coaxed them nearer and tenderly stroked 
their glowing cheeks; and he showed equal attentive- 


OIaptain*B Slaat 


13 


ness whenever he saw a child crying. He would bend 
down low so that the little one might whisper the cause 
of the trouble into his ear like a secret confession, and 
he did not rest until the tears had ceased to flow and 
bright joy had returned again. He exercised this office 
as comforter with peculiar importance, — his face mean- 
while assuming an almost anxious expression. 

One day I could not help expressing to him in a jest- 
ing way my astonishment at the fact that he treated 
with such seriousness a thing to which most people 
pay so little attention. He listened to me quietly, but 
remained very earnest and nodded at first silently to 
himself as he was accustomed to do when a thought or 
a memory occupied his mind. 

know very well,” he said after some time, “how 
the majority of grown-up people pass by the tears of 
children, — smiling, or vexed and full of impatience. 
They do not believe in the sorrows of young souls be- 
cause they do not know children. The little ones are 
like the flowers; they cannot rise up to us, so we must 
bend down to them if we wish to know them. He who 
takes the trouble may often find in a beautiful flower 
not only the dew of heaven, but also a black, terrible 
worm which lacerates the tender calyx with rapacious 
jaws. 0, there are sorrows in the soul of a child, and 
whoever has seen them will never forget them again!” 

It was a warm, sunny day in spring when we had this 
conversation: the high water had gradually subsided 


14 


Slaal 


and only pools and ponds were left in the willow thickets 
at the foot of the dike. The farmers had come out to 
their fields and were beginning to work them again. 
As we were strolling leisurely along the usual path I 
saw before us close by the edge of the dike toward the 
stream a little lad about six years old lying down with 
his face to the ground. He was a blond-haired, delicate 
little fellow, clad only with a shirt and a pair of little 
trousers, plainly the child of poor people. While the 
mother was busy with the planting of potatoes in the 
field below, the boy had probably run up the dike and, 
attracted by the charm of the sun-warmed earth, he 
had lain down and fallen asleep. 

The noise of our steps and the loud voice of old Mr. 
Bauer may have awakened and at the same time startled 
him: for now when we had come quite close to him I 
saw how a sudden, nervous twitching seized the thin 
little body. With a hasty movement he raised his head 
from his arms lying beneath it, and in the next moment 
he had lost his footing and was rolling down the slope 
of the dike. J ust at the place where this happened there 
was one of the above-named thickets in which the water 
was still standing, although it was of no considerable 
depth. 

The old rector uttered a half-suppressed cry of terror 
and sprang with two or three bounds down the slope and 
after the child. In the moment when the latter had 
almost touched the water, the rector grasped him and 


((Iaptatn*a Hagt 


15 


raised him from the ground with a convulsive grip. As 
soon as the boy, who had been stunned by this sudden 
incident, realized the situation he began to cry piti- 
fully. The old man lifted him upon his left arm and 
carried him; as he slowly climbed up the slope he took 
his handkerchief and wiped the dirt from the child’s 
face and hair. The boy, who seemed to be frail by 
nature and who now for the first time realized that 
something unusual had happened to him, naturally be- 
gan to cry louder than ever, and then the old man ran 
up and down the dike with him, petting him, encour- 
aging him, and trying in every way to amuse him. 
Finally his purpose was accomplished and when he set 
him down the little fellow was laughing as merrily as a 
goblin. 

All this was infinitely droll and at the same time 
very touching to see. In order to soothe the boy com- 
pletely, the old man put his hand into his pocket and 
brought forth a five-penny piece. ^^Be sure that you 
never lie down on the ground so near the water again 
and go to sleep ! Do you understand he said while he 
held up the piece of money before the child’s eyes. 

Whether this warning fell upon very attentive ears, 
I am inclined to doubt: for as soon as the boy felt the 
coin in his hand he turned around suddenly and shot 
like a bullet out of the barrel of a gun down the bank 
toward his mother, all the while waving the coin in his 
'right hand high above his head. We followed him with 


16 


Olaptain'fi Safit 


our eyes and involuntarily I was forced to laugh as I 
saw what a flood of joy was expressed in the hasty 
movements of those little legs. They were like two 
little exclamation points of delight. 

“Do give better attention to your child,” called Mr. 
Bauer in a loud voice to the woman who had continued 
to work at her potatoes without taking any notice of the 
events on the dike. “Your boy came within a hair’s 
breadth of falling into the water,’ ’continued he, as she 
now raised her head, her attention having been at- 
tracted by the joyful cry of the little fellow. What the 
boy told her we could not understand, however the im- 
pression was only vague, for she looked up to us once 
more with a passing glance and a slight nod, directed 
her boy to stay by her and again resumed her work. 

“That’s the way it is with these people,” said the 
rector, as he took off his hat and wiped the perspiration 
from his brow. “When they lose their children they 
realize for the first time that they have possessed a jewel 
which shone with its own inherent light and filled their 
poverty with brightness.” 

“But do you really believe,” said I, “that the child 
could have suffered harm? The water is so low that, 
in my opinion, a cold bath would have been the worst 
that could have happened to him.” 

“You are right,” he answered as he looked down at 
the pool. “I see now that I became excited without 
cause. It must be due to the fact that it happened just 


Eijt ((Iaptatn*a Uagt 


17 


at this place.” “How so, just at this place,” I asked 
in surprise. He did not answer, and by the fixed gaze 
with which he looked down into the depths I perceived 
how some remembrance or other rose up from below 
and enveloped him with its dreamy net. 

“What is there in this place?” I asked once more, 
“is it marked by some particular occurrence?” I must 
have guessed it, for he raised his head and looked into 
my eyes with a burning gaze. 

“You have asked me to explain,” he said in a solemn 
tone, “why I stoop down to the children, inquire into 
their sorrows and dry their tears, and I have answered 
you with a few general words, but the explanation was 
only partial ; tomorrow you shall have it in full — tomor- 
row,” he repeated dreamily. He pressed my hand and 
I saw him disappear with bowed and thoughtful head 
between the houses of the town. 

When we met each other the next day the old rector 
told me the following tale : 

“A number of years ago a captain was transferred 
from the western part of Germany to the regiment of 
artillery which is quartered here. ^The Black Captain, 
was the name by which he was known among the sol- 
diers and the people, and his appearance certainly justi- 
fied the name. Everything about him was gloomy and 
black. Dark hair and a long fiowing beard of the same 
color framed his weather-beaten face and his eyes 
looked forth from beneath bushy eyebrows: in addition 


18 


QIl|p Qlaptaiu'a UaHt Cfll|tlb 


to this there was the dark-blue artillery uniform, with 
black velvet on the collar and the cap, which surrounded 
his gigantic form. 

^‘It was a winter afternoon when I saw him for the 
first time and I shall never forget how he passed by me 
through the white glimmering snow like a huge black 
shadow. I must have assumed a very puzzled expres- 
sion, for he cast a hasty glance toward me and I thereby 
had an opportunity to observe his features. If I have 
ever seen a gloomy human countenance, this was one. 
It was not hard, not forbidding, not even stern, but 
overwhelmingly serious : the face of a man who is con- 
vinced that fate is against him but who has taken up 
the inexorable conflict resolved to fight the battle to the 
bitter end. He had eyes which looked as though they 
had never laughed, and a mouth which did not seem 
to have been made for speech. According to all that I 
could hear, his inner nature corresponded to his out- 
ward appearance. He was taciturn and unsociable, 
living alone in the rooms which he had rented here in 
the suburbs near the stables of his battery. The quar- 
ters were much more roomy than a single person needs 
and the curiosity of the neighbors hovered around the 
Tlack captain’ as industriously as a swarm of bees 
around a flower, and soon discovered that he had a wife 
and children and would send for his family as soon as 
he had become settled in the place. 


QIapla!n*g HaBl 


19 


‘‘This first report was soon corrected by a second : his 
wife was no longer living. When she had died could not 
he learned, but it was certain that she was dead. Gott- 
lieb Bansch, the captain’s servant, who was helping him 
get settled in the house, had seen his master hang up in 
his room directly above his desk a photograph in a black 
ebony frame with a black cross above the center of it. 
It was the picture of a woman. 

“ ‘She must have been beautiful, though !’ said Gott- 
lieb Bansch to the eagerly listening porter’s wife, through 
whom the news concerning the captain was spread fur- 
ther. Gottlieb said that the captain had taken the pic- 
ture from a case of ‘pure black velvet’ and every time 
when he returned from duty he would look at the pic- 
ture, and evenings when he had the lamp placed on the 
table he would turn it so that the light fell directly 
upon it. And one evening when Gottlieb was preparing 
supper for his master as usual the captain, who was 
again sitting before his writing-desk, turned to him and 
asked if he knew how to manage children, and when he 
didn’t know just what to reply the captain asked 
whether he liked children. And when he answered ‘Yes, 
I get along very well with them,’ the captain nodded 
and while looking at the picture continued, saying the 
children had lost their mother and it would be very 
expensive to engage a nurse and it wouldn’t suit him 
anyway, and he would therefore prefer to try entrusting 
them to him for the present. Then he said the captain 


20 


HlaBl 


arose and walked up and down the room until the tea 
had become quite cold, and when he presently asked the 
captain whether he had not ordered tea he stood still, 
and it seemed that he had not noticed before that the 
servant was still there and he said, ‘Oh yes — but you 
had better go to bed now,’ and gave him a cigar. Gott- 
lieb Bansch was satisfied with his master and thought 
that he had an easy time under him. 

“After having heard this report the porter’s wife also 
accepted the opinion that he must be a good man, and 
the fact that he had lost his beautiful young wife and 
suffered such grief because of it, aroused her sympathy. 
Her energetic tongue saw to it that the news which she 
had heard was set in circulation among the neighbors 
and the curiosity and astonishment which had followed 
the lonely man hitherto gave way to that sympathetic 
timidity which is felt in the presence of misfortune. 
The arrival of his children was awaited with intense 
interest. 

“The black captain had expressed to Gottlieb Bansch 
his intention of going after the children himself, but 
had said that he would wait until spring, for the winter 
here was very cold and the children were not used to such 
a climate in their own home. This report increased the 
interest; in their own minds the people pictured these 
little ones who had been born in a land where it was 
so much warmer and must therefore be so much more 


(ilaptatu'H Hajat Ollitlb 


21 


beautiful, and they praised the earnest man who showed 
such thoughtful care for the tender creatures. 

Spring came and one day the captain went away on 
the train. Several days later, on the appointed evening, 
Gottlieb Bansch went to the station at a late hour in 
order to meet his master. Shortly afterward, when it 
had grown quite dark, a closed carriage rolled up to the 
lonesome house. Gottlieb Bansch jumped down from 
the driver’s seat and opened the door of the carriage. 
From its interior he took a small bundle, which, upon 
closer inspection, would have proved to be a sleeping 
child. Then two little legs and after these two still 
smaller ones came climbing down the step, and then 
came the long form of -the captain himself, who, like 
Gottlieb Bansch, carried a small bundle in his arms. 
The front door of the house was opened and then closed 
again — the black captain had moved in with his four 
children. 

‘^And behold — on the next day, when it was bright, 
warm and sunny noon, a miracle happened — a beautiful, 
lovely miracle: the door of the captain’s house was 
opened and out came four little boys, each one just a 
little smaller than the preceding, like organ pipes, four 
delightful, charming little creatures. On the threshold 
of the door they had to meet the first obstacle, for there 
stood the porter’s wife, who clapped her hands for sheer 
delight at sight of the four little lads, and would not 


22 


©ajitain’a UajBt 


let them pass until she had kissed each one of them half 
to death. 

“Then came Gottlieb Biinsch, who was performing 
his duties as nurse for the first time and whose good, 
honest face was quite flushed with zeal and pleasure. 
‘^The very image of their mother — not a trace of their 
father, not even a trace,’ he said over the heads of the 
children to the porter’s wife, who was still kneeling on 
the floor and could hardly contain herself for admira- 
tion. He arranged his little column by carrying the 
youngest of the children on his left arm and leading the 
second youngest with his right hand, while the two older 
boys, six and seven years of age, went on ahead hand 
in hand. With little mincing steps they came across 
the street and went up the dike, Gottlieb Biinsch direct- 
ing their way by calling out, ^Now to the left — now 
straight ahead,’ and thus I met them on that first day.” 

The rector was silent and wiped his face. Was it 
perspiration that he wiped away? I think not. 

“How many years,” he continued after a long pause, 
“have passed since then, and how often the sun has 
described its arc across the dike from morning to eve- 
ning, and yet, long ago as it is, I still have a feeling as 
if there were a void, a dark spot which can never he 
made bright, at the place where I saw the children that 
day and do not see them any more. The spot, I know 
right well, is in my own soul, for I cannot forget the 
light that rose in me when I saw them coming slowly 


©aptattt’B Slaat 


23 


along, those four little boys with their long blond locks 
waving in the light breeze and with the large, sparkling 
blue eyes which were turned with astonishment upon 
the new world round about them and upon the strange 
people that hurried past them. These forms of light 
the children of the gloomy black captain? I could 
hardly believe it, for it was as if one should suddenl;y 
see new and fragrant buds breaking forth on an old 
withered stump which had been thought to be quite dead. 
I stood still before them and the two boys in the lead 
looked timidly and anxiously at the stranger who barred 
their path. 

^^^What is your name?’ I asked the oldest one, and 
looking at me with big eyes he replied after some hesi- 
tation, ^Edmund’ : he spoke in the somewhat broad dialect 
of his home, so that his little lips gave his name the 
sound of ^Ademund,’ and this was infinitely charming 
and pretty. I turned with the same question to the 
second boy, hut he clung anxiously to his older brother 
without answering. Little Edmund looked first at his 
embarrassed brother and then at me, and with the most 
charming laugh he said : TIerman is his name,’ which 
he pronounced again as ‘Harman.’ Now he looked at me 
quite happily with wide-open eyes and seemed to have 
forgotten all of his timidity. ‘Then give me your 
hands,’ I said, and the two little right hands were joined 
in mine. 


24 


(dajrtattt'B ICaat Olljilb 


^We will be good friends now, will we not?’ I said 
as I stooped down low to the boys. Edmund nodded 
energetically with his curly blond head, while little 
Herman smiled at me gently. 

turned to the two younger ones, who were perhaps 
three and four years old. ‘That is George,’ explained 
Edmund, who had stepped with me to his little brother, 
and he pointed to the child whom the servant was lead- 
ing by the hand. The left hand of the little boy rested 
in the large, heavy hand of the soldier, and Gottlieb 
Bansch held it very carefully, as if he were afraid of 
crushing the tender little fingers. ‘And that is Maurice,’ 
said Edmund’s clear voice when we at last stood before 
the little boy, who was sitting on Gottlieb’s left arm. 
I was about to take hold of his hand, but the child 
became afraid and threw both his arms around the 
servant’s neck, so that his face was pressed tight against 
the latter’s head. 

Gottlieb Bansch laughed all over his broad, good- 
natured face. ‘Just give the gentleman your hand,’ he 
said, ‘just give him your little hand,’ but his admonition 
did not seem to be of much avail. 

“ ‘He is still so small — he is still afraid,’ explained 
Edmund in order to excuse the helplessness of his little 
brother. He seemed to be fully conscious of his dignity 
and duty as ‘the oldest’ and I had to laugh heartily. 
Then I turned to him again : ‘So you are big Edmund, 
are you?’ The boy looked at me with his beautiful, 


OIaytatn*g Hast 


25 


intelligent eyes so merrily that I could not refrain from 
grasping him under the arms and tossing him up into 
the air and pressing a hearty kiss on his glowing face. 
As soon as I had set him down on the ground again 
and he had adjusted his little jacket he darted forward 
a few steps to the edge of the dike and I saw him stoop 
down and pull something out of the ground. He came 
back immediately and offered me — a new-blown violet. 

^Is that for me?’ I asked, and the lovely child 
nodded silently, blushing and smiling as I took the 
flower from his earth-stained Angers. 

^^Now little Herman had also taken courage and 
approached me. 

Tlease throw me up, too,’ he cried, so I had to toss 
him up also. Now, when George and little Maurice 
saw their brother fluttering in the air so merrily they 
began to scream with delight and there was a tumult 
of pure joy and happiness. 

“ ‘Well, now say good-bye and thank the gentleman 
nicely,’ admonished Gottlieb Bansch, who was making 
decided progress as nurse and tutor. 

“Edmund and Herman, or, speaking more correctly, 
Mundi and Mannchen — for a child that is not called by 
a loving nickname is like a flower that is designated 
only by a Latin botanical term — Mundi and Mannchen 
then took off their little felt caps and simultaneously 
made a bow in my direction, which was meant very 
seriously and which looked inflnitely droll. Then they 


26 


©II? Olaptatn’jBi Hast 


took each other by the hand, and while the little caravan 
started on its way I stood still and followed them with 
my eyes. A moment later when they had gone a few 
steps farther Mundi turned around, Miinnchen imitated 
him and I could observe by the large eyes with which 
they looked back at me that they were now lost in won- 
derment over the stranger who had so quickly formed 
e. friendship with them. They turned around again 
and continued their way, and just as I saw them 
at that time, tripping with little steps along the dike, 
now asking Gottlieb Bansch a question, now running 
forward a few steps, then stopping again to watch the 
very remarkable conduct of some butterfly, even so have 
they remained in my memory ; and thus T see them ever 
and again, walking along before me farther and farther 
away until they grow smaller and smaller, like minute 
shining little spots on a long, long road which leads into 
the beyond. 

“A week had not passed before the whole town knew 
what nice little fellow-citizens it had won ; another week 
more, and the four-leaved clover was the favorite of the 
whole town. The women who met them caressed and 
kissed them, the men showed them little favors by help- 
ing them look for a lost ball or by assisting them to fly 
their kites. And all of this took place under the eyes 
of Gottlieb Bansch, who grew ever more proficient in his 
position as nurse-maid and developed in this capacity 


IGaHt Olljtlb 


27 


the most varied qualities, but the best of these was — a 
good heart. 

“He proved himself extremely ingenious in the inven- 
tion and manufacture of every conceivable plaything. 
He whittled the children whistles out of wood and sword- 
grass, made them cross-bows, helmets of gold paper with 
tassels, and he even made a sword belt for Mundi out 
of an old leather strap, and a wooden sword for the belt. 
One could not imagine anything more comical than 
when he was working away on these things with earnest 
mien down in the meadow where the children were 
playing. The four little fellows would stand around 
him with astonished gaze, awaiting the moment when 
the new wonder should be completed and placed in their 
hands. 

“The black captain was never seen on these walks 
with his children and ever busy rumor quickly came to 
the conclusion that he did not care for them. 

“Even at that time I could not believe the truth of 
this assertion, for children who are not loved by their 
father do not look as happy as these did, nor so well 
cared for, are not well-bred and courteous toward people 
as these children were, nor do they wear such fine and 
neatly made little jackets and such perfectly fitting 
shoes and boots. Gottlieb Bansch took exactly this view 
of the case also and gave it as his opinion that the cap- 
tain loved his children very much, but was unable to 
express it. I was soon to have an opportunity for a 


28 ©ajjtaiu’fl iCaat 


deeper insight into the relations between father and 
children ; for when the vacation had come at the close of 
which the new school semester began, my door-bell rang 
one day and when I opened the door the black captain 
was standing there, Mundi at his right hand and Mann- 
chen at his left. He greeted me with reserved hut 
friendly courtesy and while we sat down by the table he 
informed me in a deep bass voice that he wished to have 
his two boys received into the preparatory school. 

^They lost their mother so soon,’ he said, ^and I have 
not sufficient time to care for them as I should like 
to do.’ 

^^Meanwhile the two hoys had been looking about the 
room, and while little Herman was leaning dreamily 
against the window and looking out, Edmund studied 
with great interest the titles of the hooks upon my 
shelves. 

^Do you understand what this is ?’ I asked as I 
stepped forward and took down a book. ^Just read this 
for me, ’ I said as I held the title of the book toward him. 

^Daniel’s Manual of Geography,’ he read without 
hesitation. 

^^^Do you know what geography is?’ I inquired 
further. 

^Geography is the description of the earth,’ the 
little lad rattled off like clockwork. 

^‘^Just see,’ I said laughing, ^you are already quite a 
learned little man,’ and I glanced at the captain, whose 


Olaptattt'a Haat OHjitlb 


29 


eyes were resting upon the boy. I grasped the situation 
instantly, for in the silent glow of these eyes I saw with 
what passionate power the soul of the man clung to the 
boy. The little examination which I had arranged had 
plainly excited the father far more than the boy him- 
self; this I observed by the almost imperceptible trem- 
bling of his nostrils and by the suggestion of a proud 
smile which played about his face as he now drew the 
boy close to him and laid his hand upon his blond 
head. 

‘What do you wish to become some day ?’ I asked 
the child. 

“ ‘A professor,^ he answered, and the words came like 
a shot out of a pistol. 

“ ‘He has gotten that idea into his head somehow,’ 
said the captain, and this time he really smiled, and it 
was a happy smile. What a structure of proud hopes 
must have arisen before his soul while he gazed down 
on his bright, intelligent child! 

“ ‘Now you come here, too,’ he said, turning to Mann- 
chen, who was still standing by the window. The child 
came forward and with his gentle eyes looked up inno- 
cently into his father’s face. I have never seen a ten- 
derer look in the eyes of a child. 

“ ‘And what do you wish to make of yourself ?’ asked 
the captain, and the tone of his voice sounded some- 
what harsher. 

“Mannchen glanced toward his brother. 


30 


©l|[F Hast 


“^A professor, too,^ he answered with his thin little 
voice. 

^‘Mundi laughed outright and the captain brushed the 
little fellow’s hair with his hand. ^You would make a 
fine professor,’ he said. 

do not know why it was, but I felt driven to inter- 
cede for the child; for in the manner in which the cap- 
tain spoke to him and treated him there was a depre- 
ciatory tone that annoyed and offended me and hurt 
the feelings of the harmless little creature, who looked 
up at his father with such a gentle, trusting look as if 
nothing hut justice, love and kindness could come from 
there. 

^Certainly,’ I said appeasingly, fif Mannchen is dili- 
gent he will learn everything that Mundi has learned, 
and then he can become a professor, too, some day.’ 

“ ^Mundi can write already,’ said the little fellow as 
he looked in great admiration toward his elder brother, 
who blushed with pride and pleasure and looked as 
bright as an unfolding bud upon a rose bush. 

‘^The captain’s eyes turned toward the oldest boy 
again and rested upon him, and I saw plainly that the 
younger lad had no chance of competing with his older 
brother in the father’s affections. 

^^Both boys now entered the preparatory school : 
Mundi was placed in the upper class and sped forward 
like a young and spirited colt; Mannchen entered the 
class below and was just as industrious but plainly not 


(ilajjtatn'fs HaBt (!Il|Ub 


31 


so gifted as his brother, who was in reality a child of 
unusual ability. Every morning they came to school 
punctually at the stroke of the bell and at the close of 
the session Mundi could be seen at the outer door waiting 
for Mannchen, or Mannchen waiting for Mundi, and 
they trotted home hand in hand, a beautiful picture of 
brotherly love and harmony. 

‘‘This continued for some time, then winter came; 
in place of the light little summer jackets the children 
wore heavy, warm overcoats; the little legs trotted on 
their way to school in top boots and the blond little 
heads were covered with fur caps, from beneath which 
the small faces looked forth, red and fresh as Borsdorf 
apples. After a cold winter a warm spring followed, 
and then came a very hot, dry summer. At this season 
it happened for the first time that Mundi became inat- 
tentive and indifferent during class hours. I looked 
at the boy and noticed in his eyes an expression which I 
had not seen there before; they were tired and looked 
as if they were covered with a film. 

“ Ts anything the matter with you ?’ I asked as I 
placed my hand under his chin and looked into his face. 
His skin was hot and dry. ‘Does anything hurt you?’ 
He nodded slightly. ‘Where does it hurt?’ I asked. 
‘In my head,’ he answered. ‘Go down to the well,’ I 
said, ‘drink a glass of fresh water and then come back.’ 

“The child arose and went out, but did not return. 
I stepped to the window and saw him sitting on a bench 


32 


Slljr OIapta!tt*g HaBt 


in the yard, his head leaning back against the wall of 
the house. A sudden anxiety seized me. I called 
Mannchen from his class room. 

‘Your little brother is ill/ I said to him; ‘run home 
and tell Gottlieb Bansch to come for him.’ 

“When Mannchen saw his brother sitting so pitifully 
on the bench he rushed toward him and embraced him, 
but Mundi did not return the caress and the little fellow 
remained standing for a moment quite confused as his 
arms hung limply at his side. 

“ ‘Run quickly/ I said, ‘run’ ; and he shot away with 
the speed of the wind. 

“Fifteen minutes later, not Gottlieb Bansch, but the 
captain himself appeared, and I shall never forget the 
look of anxious fear with which he hurried to the boy. 
He took him into his arms and pressed him to his breast ; 
then he carried him to the cab he had brought with him, 
which was waiting at the gate. The boy seemed uncon- 
scious of what was being done with him. Mannchen 
had also stepped to the door and remained standing 
there very sad while the cab rolled away; the father had 
had thoughts and looks for Mundi only. 

“And today Mannchen went home from school alone 
for the first time. 

“The next day Mundi did not return to school and 
when I inquired after him of his little brother, who 
sat silent and troubled in his seat, I learned that he was 
very ill; and when I met Gottlieb Bansch in the after- 


(daptatn^B CaBt OII|Ub 


33 


noon with the other children, he informed me, his face 
full of anxiety and care, that the doctor thought it 
might become very serious and that the captain had sat 
by his bed the whole night and would not leave the child 
at all. The doctor had divined correctly and Gottlieb 
Bansch had heard correctly; it did become serious.^^ 
Again the old rector made a long pause; then there 
appeared upon his features a bitter, angry smile. “The 
men of old,’^ he said, “had it easier than we; when a 
brutal stroke of fate robbed them of a precious treasure 
they simply said, ‘The gods have become jealous.’ We 
Christians are expected to interpret everything which 
happens to us as sent from God for our good, even 
though many times we do not understand Him at all; 
no, not at all, not in the least.” 

He had torn his hat from his head and was waving 
it to and fro, and the pain which the remembrance 
caused him seemed to be as hot and powerful as on that 
day when all this happened which he was telling me 
now years afterward. “For how can one understand it,” 
he continued, “and why should it be that suddenly 
destruction was allowed to fall upon all this beautiful 
childhood which existed only for the joy and delight of 
men, destruction in its most horrible form, in the form 

of that monster with glassy eyes and fevered cheeks ” 

He stopped in the midst of his sentence when he ob- 
served my astonished look. “I see,” he said, “that I am 


34 


OII|? (flaptaitt'B IGaat 


beginning to rave instead of telling my story; what 1 
mean was — scarlet fever. 

^^Where had it so suddenly come from ? In the whole 
city there was not another case of it. Could it be that 
the children had not been able to stand the sudden 
changes of temperature? All these questions remained 
unanswered before the fearful and certain fact: it was 
there. Like a thief in the night it had broken into the 
unfortunate captain’s house and had thrown itself with 
fiendish power upon little Edmund. For twenty-four 
hours the poor child languished in the delirium of fever : 
then little Maurice and George were also stricken. 
Mannchen, pale as a shadow, continued at school three 
days, but on the fourth he also remained at home. He, 
too, was smitten with the fever. 

‘^Then there came a day when the people stopped each 
other on the street and whispered something to each 
other softly and secretly as if there hovered in the air 
above them a fearful tyrannical power which one dared 
not waken through loud talking. The women clasped 
their hands together and the men shook their heads; 
then they looked across at the darkened windows of the 
captain’s house with that timid glance with which one 
looks upon an inexplicable misfortune, upon a man 
stricken by the hand of God. 

^All four dead ?’ I heard a woman ask as I walked 
along the dike. 


Slaat Olljtlb 


35 


^Three/ was the answer, ^and the fourth child lies 
dying/ 

‘‘When I heard this I had to lean against a tree, for 
I felt my blood stand still in my veins; and while I 
stood there with trembling knees 1 experienced a fright- 
ful delusion: I saw the leaves of the trees, the grass 
upon the meadow, everything green as far as my eye 
could reach, turn into a dry, rusty yellow; not the 
golden yellow of autumn, but the dead yellow of the 
desert.” 

The rector turned to me and said: “Do not think 
that I am indulging my imagination ; I had as full pos- 
session of my senses as I have at this moment and that 
is just why it seemed so terrible. I had a dull, vague 
longing to learn more of the details and with this in 
view I went over to the stricken home. When the door 
opened I saw the porter’s wife in her basement lodg- 
ings looking forth with eyes that were red and swollen, 
and when she recognized me she sat down upon the 
steps of the stairway, covered her face with her apron 
and once more began to weep violently and mournfully. 
‘Do not go up,’ she said, ‘it is too terrible. God loved 
his little angels too well and wished to have them with 
him again.’ I listened to her without uttering a sound : 
little Herman alone had not yet been taken from them, 
but the doctor entertained the gravest fears for his life 
also. 


36 


OIaptattt*fl ilaBt 0Il|U5 


turned away, overwhelmed with sadness, and left 
the house. ^God loved his angels too well’ — these words 
rang in my soul like an echo of the deadly occurrence. 

^‘Let me pass over the day when we carried them to 
the grave while a great throng of voluntary mourners 
joined the sad procession. Flowers without number 
covered the little mound where they lay in one common 
grave, and a large lilac bush spread its branches over it. 

saw the captain on this day for the first time since 
the beginning of these events. Not a line in his face 
quivered, not a tear fell from his eyes, but the expres- 
sion of his features was such that no one ventured to 
speak a word to him. In spite of this fact I pressed 
forward and grasped his hand; for a moment he stared 
at me, then his eyes began to roll so that nothing but 
the whites were visible, and with a sudden, almost wild 
movement, he tore his hand from mine and turned 
away. 

‘^It was different with Gottlieb Bansch. I had not 
noticed him at first because he kept himself quite in the 
background; as I now discovered him, I saw that he 
had turned away from the grave and the assembled 
crowd and stood with his helmet in his hand, weeping 
silently so that the tears ran down his cheeks. 

^‘At first the people were so stunned by the awful 
effect of the sudden death of the children that no one 
realized that one of the boys was still alive. I confess 
that I also completely forgot the child and when I 


OIaptai«*B SlaBt 


37 


inquired about him I did so with the tacit assumption 
that his death had already occurred or at least was 
constantly expected. The opposite was the case, for 
little Herman had overcome the disease and was 
recovering. 

“It was several weeks later when I met him again for 
the first time, as Gottlieb Bansch was leading him by 
the hand. With drooping head and wavering steps he 
came along, as if walking was still quite difficult for 
him; my eyes filled with tears. ‘How do you do, 
Mannchen,’ I said as I stood before him and offered 
him my hand. 

“The child raised his eyes to me: they had grown 
still larger than before and looked forth from a pale, 
emaciated little face. It was a pitiful sight. ‘Don’t you 
know me any more?’ I asked as he made no move to 
take my hand, and as I noticed that his eyes were fixed 
upon me as though he saw me for the first time. 

“The boy clung silently to the soldier, timid and 
anxious, as if he wished to hide himself behind the 
servant’s coat. 

“Gottlieb Bansch laid his large hand upon the child’s 
head and patted it gently. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said 
soothingly, ‘this man is very fond of little boys.’ 

“His encouragement was of no avail and Gottlieb 
Bansch looked down at the little fellow and shook his 
head. 


38 


©ll? C^aplant^g ICaBl 


^Has he not entirely recovered ?’ I asked. 

‘Yes, he is quite well again/ answered the servant, 

‘but’ He did not finish the sentence and nodded 

slowly to himself. I saw how it grieved him and it 
seemed to me that he wished to say more but did not 
trust himself to do so. 

“ ‘Will you soon be in school again with us ?’ I asked, 
turning to Mannchen once more. 

“ ‘That would indeed be the best/ answered Gottlieb 
Bansch for the child, ‘for you see/ and he spoke more 
softly, as if he did not wish the boy to understand him — 
‘my time will soon be up and I must go home, and I do 
not know at all what will become of the child.’ 

“I looked at him in astonishment and rejoined: 
‘What will become of him? Isn’t he with his father?’ 

“Gottlieb Bansch nodded again thoughtfully as be- 
fore. ‘There, run now to the sand-pile/ he said to 
Mannchen, as he gave him a little wheelbarrow and put 
a wooden spade into his hand which he had brought 
along for the child, ‘play awhile in the sand and I will 
be there soon/ he added. 

“The little fellow followed instructions and wheeled 
his barrow from the dike toward the sand-pile, where I 
had formerly seen him so many times in innocent play 
with his brothers. 

“When he had gone, Gottlieb Bansch turned to me 
again and said: ‘I do not know what to think of the 
captain. All day long he goes about without speaking 




39 


a word to anyone and it seems as though he were not 
even conscious of the existence of little Mannchen/ 

“I thought of the incident which had occurred in my 
study. ‘I believe/ I said, 'that he loved the oldest boy 
best.’ 

" 'Yes, indeed/ replied the servant, 'I think he would 
scarcely have missed all the others if the oldest had only 
been spared to him.’ He looked down at Mannchen, 
who was busy with his wheelbarrow. 'It is true, indeed/ 
he continued, 'the eldest was a capital little fellow; but 
this poor creature is certainly not to blame that he 
alone is left.’ 

"He walked away toward the boy and certainly had 
no suspicion of the awful impression his simple words 
had made upon me. 

"It was the end of summer ; autumn had come when 
the reservists were discharged. One of these was Gott- 
lieb Biinsch, whose three-year period of service had ex- 
pired. I need not describe to you the picture which the 
city presents at such a time; the soldier rejoices in the 
freedom which he has regained and endeavors to give 
suitable expression to his consciousness of it. Singly 
and in groups one sees them passing through the streets, 
— infantry-men, cavalry-men, artillery-men, in the old 
uniform which they are allowed to take home. The cap 
which they had hitherto worn straight, according to 


40 


01aptatn*fl IGaat 


regulations, is now perched on the ear; each man is with- 
out side-arms, but is equipped with a cane. The Prus- 
sian reservist upon returning to the pursuits of peace 
considers this emblem of civil life absolutely indis- 
pensable. He handles it with the proud feeling that he 
may now do and wear what has hitherto been forbidden. 
By the various forms of the canes one can recognize the 
characteristics of the different branches of the service. 
The cane of the cavalry-man is the most elegant and 
slender, that of the infantry-man is stronger and thicker, 
while the artillery-men wield veritable clubs. Gottlieb 
Bansch appeared with a club of the latter kind on the 
day when he was discharged. 

^Tt was a cloudy afternoon in September. I hap- 
pened to be at the railroad station, where I had said 
farewell to a departing friend, when I saw him coming 
down the street. Companies of other reservists who 
were to be sent to the same place as Gottlieb Bansch 
were walking before and behind him, loudly shouting 
and singing. He went along apart from them, very 
quiet and very earnest. In his right hand he carried 
his few belongings wrapped in a red cotton handker- 
chief. At his left ran Mannchen. 

‘T wondered if the boy knew that he was accompany- 
ing Gottlieb Bansch for the last time. The latter had 
given him his large, heavy cane, and the child was 
using it as a hobby-horse. He grasped the curved handle 
of the cane with his little hands and rode along beside 


Olaptatn’fi Haat 


41 


the soldier. When they reached the platform of the 
station Gottlieb Bansch took the boy a little to one side 
and while the soldier thoughtfully regarded the waiting 
train, Mannchen looked up at him in quiet astonish- 
ment, as if he noticed a change in him. I stood close 
behind them. He stooped down to the child and gently 
patted his cheeks while he cautiously took the cane out 
of his hands. 

^You see,’ he said, while he pointed to the train, 
^now I must get in and ride home, and here I have 
brought you something nice.’ From his coat pocket he 
drew a little wooden flute, which he handed to the 
child; evidently he had bought it with his meagre 
savings. 

‘^Mannchen received the gift without taking his eyes 
from Gottlieb Bansch. I stepped up to them. ‘Won’t 
you have a cigar ?’ I said, addressing the young man and 
offering him my cigar case. 

“ ‘I thank you very much,’ he replied as he took a 
cigar from the case with his clumsy fingers. 

“‘Oh, take more,’ I said, and I emptied the entire 
contents of the case into his hand. 

“ ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he replied, while he smiled 
in confusion and shoved the cigars between the buttons 
of his coat. I gave him my hand at parting and he 
pressed it warmly as he touched his cap. How hard his 
hand was and how rough those fingers, but how tender 
his heart, how sensitive and good ! 


42 


(Haptain'fi Haat 


‘I hope you will be kind enough/ he remarked quietly 
to me, ‘to take the child with you from the depot. He 
was so anxious to come with me and I did not have the 
heart to leave him at home.^ I silently nodded my 
consent. 

“The signal bell was ringing and as Gottlieb Bansch 
started to get in, Mannchen clung to him with both his 
hands. The young man freed himself gently from the 
child, but when he had climbed into the compartment 
the little fellow set his foot upon the step and stretched 
out his arms toward him. ‘Let me go along, oh let me 
go along,’ he cried, while he looked up anxiously at 
Gottlieb Bansch. 

“The other soldiers who sat in the compartment began 
to laugh. ‘Just look at the little reservist,’ they said; 
‘he wants to go along, too.’ 

“But Gottlieb Bansch climbed down once more and 
laid his two large hands upon the child’s face so that it 
was entirely covered; he stooped down close to him and 
gently patted him on the back and tried to laugh — but 
suddenly the big tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘Why, 
it is impossible, little man,’ he said; ‘it is impossible.’ 
Then he tore himself away and sprang with one bound 
back into the compartment, the door of which closed 
behind him. The train began to move and rolled out 
of the station amid the thundering Hurrah of the 
soldiers. 


^aytatn*g Slaat Ollitlli 43 


^^Lost amid the crowd of people that thronged the 
depot-platform, the child remained standing as if dazed 
and stared after the train, which was rapidly disap- 
- pearing in the distance. The wooden flute which Gott- 
lieb Bansch had given him he grasped tightly with his 
little hands. I kept close behind him and the sight of 
the lonely child wrung my heart with pity. ‘Well, 
Mannchen,’ I said as I stepped up and took his little 
limp hand in mine, ‘come, give me your hand, we will 
go home now.^ 

“The boy raised his pale little face toward me. ‘Will 
he come back soon?’ he asked. The young man had 
concealed it from him, or the child had not understood 
that the parting was to be for ever, nor did I have the 
courage to explain it to him fully. 

“ ‘Come now,’ I said, ‘be a good child and everything 
will come out right.’ 

“My admonition was unnecessary, for there never was 
a more obedient creature than this poor child. He 
allowed his little cold hand to remain in mine and just 
as he had come to the station with Gottlieb Bansch so 
he went away with me. As we walked along I con- 
sidered what I should do with him. I had to take him 
back to his father, that was clear, but involuntarily an 
uncanny feeling took possession of me at the thought. 

“We came to a confectioner’s shop and I went in and 
purchased some candy for him. I felt the necessity of 
filling the gloomy little heart with comfort and light. 


44 


Olajitatn’B 


‘^1 held the open sack before his eyes. ^Just see the 
pretty candies/ I said ; ^shall we not eat some of them 

^^The boy looked silently into the sack but did not 
move a finger; I had to put a bon-bon into his mouth 
myself. 

‘^Although the incident was so trivial it nevertheless 
made a deep impression upon me. Until now children’s 
tears had seemed to me like thunder showers, which fall 
quickly and quickly disappear. Here I saw a child who 
did not cry and who was not affected by the comfort 
which so easily brings relief to the distress of little ones. 
I could not decide to take him back to his father at once, 
so I took him along to my home and ordered a cup of 
milk for him. While waiting I showed him the pic- 
tures and the books in my room and tried to cheer him 
up with various amusements. He looked on and listened 
silently. Then I set him on the sofa and like a bird he 
slowly sipped the contents of the cup which I had placed 
before him. Meanwhile it was growing dark and I was 
forced to think seriously of taking him home. Uome, 
Mannchen,’ I said ; ^get ready, we must now go home to 
papa.’ 

‘^He climbed down from the sofa obediently, reached 
for his little hat, then remained standing in the middle 
of the room. 

^^^Well?’ I said as I stepped to the door in order to 
open it. I had scarcely touched the door-knob when 
the child, who, until now, had not cried nor uttered a 


GIl|g (ila|itatn*a UaBt Olljilh 


45 


sound, began to sob pitifully. He did not raise his 
head nor move a limb, but stood there as if in deep 
despair and cried — cried.^^ 

The rector’s voice choked, his breast labored heavily, 
he drew the palm of his hand twice, three times over 
his eyes. 

‘^Since that hour,” he continued, “I can never pass 
a child when I see it crying, for in that hour I learned 
how children can cry and that their tears can be ter- 
rible, more terrible than the tears of grown up people. 

let go the door and reached him with one step. 
‘Mannchen?’ I said. 

‘‘And now the boy threw both his arms around me 
and clung to the folds of my coat, and while sobbing as 
if his heart would break he pressed his face against me 
as if endeavoring to hide himself. ‘I am so afraid,’ he 
cried; ‘I am so afraid.’ 

“Like an icy chill these words pierced my heart, like 
a sudden fearful shock. I did not dare ask of what or 
of whom he was afraid ; 1 did not dare to offer him con- 
solation, for I felt that nature’s cry of despair which 
had burst forth from this child’s soul was infinitely 
superior to all my wisdom, and was very much sounder 
than all my reasoning. 

“I sat down on a chair and lifted the child upon my 
lap ; I took his little ice-cold hands in mine and pressed 
his tear-stained face against my breast; and thus I sat 
with him a long, long time in the growing twilight of 


46 


©l|r Olajitain’fi SaHt 


my room and the stillness round about us was broken 
only by the boy’s sobbing and weeping, which gradually 
subsided and began to die away. I did not speak a word 
but pressed the frail little form close to me, and though 
its weight rested lightly upon my knees yet I felt as if I 
were holding all the infinite burden of human sorrow 
and suffering incarnate in this child upon my lap. 

^^In that hour I learned for the first time to know 
how great and sacred is the responsibility of leading and 
educating children. I thought I knew my work before, 
because I had learned enough to meet all formal require- 
ments ; but now in the presence of this child, whose soul 
cried for love and to whom the world had become deso- 
late because it found no love, I learned that I had been 
groping in the dark and that the entire wisdom of my 
calling can be expressed in the one word: ^Give the 
child love.’ 

“Finally, when the first, most violent attack of despair 
had subsided and the boy had ceased crying, I raised 
him cautiously from my lap and set him upon his feet. 
I stroked his blond hair and placed his cap on his head ; 
then, without a word further, I took him by the hand. 
He yielded to me obediently as ever and without further 
resistance he walked by my side through the darkening 
streets of the city toward his father’s house. 

“As we entered the room the captain was sitting by 
his desk, his head resting upon his hand : the lamp stood 
beside him and caused his haggard profile to contrast 


OIaptatn*B ICaBt 


47 


sharply with its black outline of beard and hair. A book 
lay open before him, but his eyes passed over it and 
rested upon a picture which hung on the wall above his 
desk; I recognized it from the description I had heard; 
it was the picture of his wife. His thoughts seemed to 
be deep and earnest and his gaze was so fixed that, as 
he turned his head toward the open door, it looked as if 
he had to break a band which came from the picture and 
bound his eyes to it. 

When he recognized me he arose and greeted me. I 
noticed the astonished look with which he observed the 
boy at my side. ‘Where do you come from so late?’ he 
asked as he glanced down at the little fellow. 

“The boy did not utter a sound. I explained to him 
where he had gone and that I had met him at the 
station and had taken him home with me. 

“The captain nodded his head silently. 

“ T thank you,’ he then said ; ‘pray be seated.’ While 
I sat down he returned to his chair before the writing 
desk. 

“ ‘Come here,’ he said as he turned to Miinnchen, who 
had remained standing upon the very spot where he had 
stood beside me. The child cast a timid glance at his 
father, took a half step toward him and then stood still 
again. 

“ ‘Come, now, I am not going to hurt you,’ said the 
captain impatiently. He stretched out his arms and 


48 


Olaptain’fi! ICaat Gllytlb 


drew the boy to him so that the latter stood between his 
knees. 

‘Are you hungry ? Do you want any supper T asked 
the captain as he stroked the child’s hair. Mannchen 
shook his head silently; then the expression of his face 
changed and he looked as if he were going to cry. 

“ ‘Don’t be crying all the time/ said the father. The 
child was frightened, forced back his tears and without 
looking at his father he stood there, rigid and motion- 
less; his little face was as pale as death. Suddenly the 
captain stooped down and with an almost wild move- 
ment he lifted the boy upon his lap and pressed him to 
his breast. He held him with both his arms in a close 
embrace, his head sank down so low that his black 
beard lay like a dark cloud over the child’s face and he 
pressed the boy so violently that he lay as if dead upon 
his breast. 

“All this occurred in deep, unbroken silence; the 
boy’s head had fallen back, he had closed his eyes and 
for a moment it looked as if he were really dead. The 
captain did not speak a word, only a stifled groan 
escaped him, and while he handled the boy as if he 
were a doll it looked as if he were overcome by a violent 
attack of despair. At last his head sank so low that it 
rested upon the boy’s breast and he continued in this dull 
apathy for some time. 

“This whole proceeding was alike heartrending and 
thrilling. I recalled the words which Gottlieb Biinsch 


CHaptaitt'B SlaBt 


49 


had said : ^He loves his children but he can’t express 
it/ and indeed it was so; he couldn’t express it. Like 
a subterranean stream his love was coursing through his 
innermost being, and if it ever rose to the surface it was 
with such fierce passionate power that it threatened with 
destruction the very object of its love. The captain 
raised his head, roused himself, and with the same im- 
petuosity with which he had pressed the child to his 
breast, he set him down on the floor again. ‘Go to 
bed,’ he said. 

“The boy stood in the middle of the room as if he 
could not recover from what had just happened. I 
arose and went up to him and as I laid my hand upon 
his head I felt how his whole body was trembling. 
‘Pleasant dreams, Mannchen/ I said, ‘now you will come 
back to us to school again and I will show you beautiful 
books and pictures.’ The child looked at me with wide- 
open, terrified eyes. 

“The captain rang the bell and as the servant stepped 
over the threshold the little fellow started up and ran 
toward him — but it was not Gottlieb Bansch and I will 
never forget the look with which the child glanced up 
into the stranger’s face; it was extremely pitiful in its 
helpless distress. 

“After he had gone I turned to the captain and said : 
‘I believe that the child is still weak from his recent ill- 
ness and that it would be well to spare him any violent 
emotion.’ 


50 


(Eajjtattt’n mast 


^^The captain continued for a while to stare at the 
floor, then he sprang up and thrust the chair back with 
a jerk. With long strides he paced from one end of the 
room to the other; up and down, again and again; at 
last he stood still and I looked at his rolling eyes and 
saw that only the whites were visible, just as they were 
on that day when the children were buried. 

‘‘He shook his clenched flst toward heaven. ‘If He 
wants to be a hangman,^ he cried with a voice trembling 
with rage and despair, ‘why does He do His work in 
such a bunglesome manner ? Why did He leave me one ? 
Why did He not take them all? All together? That 
would have been better for me ! Yes, yes, much better ! 
Then it would have been all over and I could have put 
an end to my existence and been buried with my 
children !’ 

“I was unable to make a reply nor did he seem to 
expect any. He threw himself again into the chair 
before the writing-desk, picked up a picture in a brown 
frame which lay upon the table and held it before him 
with both his hands. It was the portrait of a boy, the 
picture of little Edmund. With a flxed look he gazed 
long at the features of the beloved face, then he placed 
it back on the table, folded his arms over it, while his 
head sank down and rested upon his arms so that his 
lips touched the picture, and I saw how a violent sob- 
bing shook his whole frame. He appeared to me like a 
tree which had been cut to the heart by the woodman’s 


©aptatn’B Slaat Olljtlli 51 


ax and the trembling of which foretold the approaching 
fall. 

“A long time passed. Finally I gave a sign of life. 
He started up and looked about. Tardon me/ he said 
as he arose. 

“ ^Tliere is nothing here that requires an apology/ I 
answered, ‘^but allow me to make a suggestion : Do not 
forget that the unfortunate child has no one left him in 
the world but you.’ 

^That is just the trouble/ he replied gloomily ; ‘here 
all is gone/ and he beat his breast, ‘and he who has 
nothing can give nothing.’ 

“With a sigh I shook my head — there was nothing 
more to be said. I left him and as I stepped out of the 
house I had a feeling as if death stood in the dark hall- 
way behind me and closed the door of the bouse like the 
cover of a coffin. 

“Winter came and soon after the beginning of the 
same Mannchen appeared in school again for the first 
time since his illness. I allowed him to enter his former 
class. I gave him the same seat that he had used 
before — the bench was the same, but the boy that sat 
upon it was no longer the same. 

“It had always been hard for him to learn, but he had 
been light-hearted and faithful, perhaps his older brother 
had also assisted him and thus he had mastered his 
lessons. How it was all different. There was no one 


52 




to help him and he himself seemed to be oppressed by 
some heavy burden which paralyzed his strength and 
ability. 

‘‘I had asked the teachers to show him the utmost 
consideration and I know for a certainty that he did not 
hear a harsh word in all that time — who could have had 
the heart to be unkind to the pale child, who evidently 
tried so hard but who found his work too difficult 1 It 
is possible, indeed, to protect a flower from frost and 
heat and from all external hardships, but not from the 
disease which has been drawn up from the roots and 
which climbs from cell to cell until the whole plant is 
destroyed. The pain and sorrow from which we tried 
to shield him had its source within himself; it came 
from the naturally reserved nature which he had in- 
herited from his father just as he owed his blond hair 
and light eyes to his mother. 

“All this became clear to me only when things had 
developed to their final conclusion and lay before me 
like a connected picture; then as I looked back I real- 
ized with horror what tortures the unfortunate child 
must have suffered during those days. All I noticed 
at the time was that from day to day he became more 
and more shy, and that he seemed to withdraw deeper 
and deeper into his own dreams. He never associated 
with any of his schoolmates, he was afraid of his teach- 
ers and I was the only person in whom he still seemed to 
have confidence, but gradually this also was withdrawn. 


5II|f ©aptain’a Uaat 


53 


The first few days he approached me when he came to 
school and gave me his hand: this ceased: then he 
avoided me and slipped into his class room. I was not 
destined to meet him any more in the friendly way of 
former days. 

^‘When I took my afternoon walks I would often see 
a little form running about alone on the snow-covered 
meadow below, shoveling up heaps of snow — that was 
he, playing about like a little child of nature. Once, as 
I was walking along the dike, I noticed how he con- 
cealed himself behind a tree and watched me from a 
distance. I called to him and he came out from his 
hiding place; it seemed as if he were going to come 
toward me, then he suddenly turned around and ran 
down the dike far away from me, as if he were being 
driven by an unspeakable fear. 

^^Thus the winter passed and Easter came, a time to 
which many a pupil looks forward with anxious heart 
because the question of promotion or non-promotion is 
then decided. It was impossible to pass the boy, and 
although it made me feel as if some deep injury were 
being inflicted upon me personally, yet I was forced to 
withhold promotion from him. I went to the class- 
room myself and informed him and his fellow-pupils 
as kindly as possible, throwing all the blame on his ill- 
ness and giving him comfort and hope for the future. 


54 




The boy sat motionless in his seat and did not look up 
at me. 

“Afterwards, when the scholars were passing out, I 
saw him stealing away with bowed head in the midst of 
the others. I stopped him and asked him to give me 
his hand; he did so without raising his head. ^Just 
look at me, please,^ I said. He obeyed and I looked into 
a face full of hopeless sadness. It was more than sad- 
ness; it was that heartrending expression which one 
sees in the eyes of sick children who suddenly look like 
grown-up people, as though they had a presentiment 
that they stood close before the solution of the enigma 
of existence and non-existence and would soon know 
far more than all the grown-up people from whom they 
had hitherto learned. 

“ ^Are you ill, Mannchen ?’ I asked. He silently 
shook his head. 

“‘Do you know that I mean it kindly with you?’ I 
asked. He nodded his head slowly but it did not look 
as though he meant to say ‘Yes,’ but rather ‘Never 
mind, I know well enough how it stands ’ 

“It was impossible to get him to talk. 

“On the morning of that very day Spring had won 
the victory over Winter. The ice on the stream had 
broken and the floods of water, rising higher from hour 
to hour, came rushing along. A howling wind which 
had risen about noon accompanied the roaring of the 
waves, so that it seemed as if these two demons of 


Qlaptatn’fi Haat 


55 


nature had conspired to make a fearful day for the 
frightened people. Indeed, I cannot remember that I 
have ever seen a day before or since like that one. It 
hardly was light at all. The sun seemed to be stifled 
by the dark gray clouds which poured out of the south- 
west part of the sky as from some inexhaustible source 
and, hanging far down close to the stream, chased along 
in mad haste; the seething gray water below, which 
rapidly climbed higher up the dike, dashed its cakes 
of ice ever harder and louder against the wooden bridge 
as if it were now bound to destroy this barrier in its 
course; and then the gray sky above — all this made a 
picture of indescribably fearful desolation. 

‘^Add to this the strange tones caused by the storm as 
it dashed against a thousand corners and angles, drown- 
ing the sound of every human voice and deceiving and 
mocking the ears of men. To this very day I feel the 
icy shudder which came over me as I was crossing the 
trembling, tottering bridge on my return to the city 
and I stopped involuntarily because I thought I heard 
the shrill cry of a child’s voice. I soon realized that I 
had been deceived, that it was only the wind which rat- 
tled in the rigging of the ships lying at the foot of the 
bridge and which was cut through by the tightly drawn 
ropes as by whistling saws. Once more the sound was 
repeated and once more fright bound me to the spot 
where I stood, for again I thought I had heard a distant 
mournful cry ; it was a delusion this time also, but high 


56 


Olaptatn'ja SlaBt 0II|il5 


above my head I saw a crow which tried in vain to 
fight against the wind but was finally hurled around 
like a piece of black paper and thrown backward — from 
the crow had come the hoarse mournful cry which I had 
heard. 

‘^In spite of this explanation, however, the dull, 
uncanny feeling never left me, an oppression of mental 
anguish which I tried in vain to master, although I 
could not quite understand what it was that made me 
shudder. 

^^This feeling grew upon me as the darkness increased. 
I could endure it no longer within my four walls, for I 
was oppressed by a presentiment of some great calamity 
which was to come upon us in this awful night. I went 
once more to the bridge; I wanted to go once more to 
the dike, although I could not explain to myself why, 
but they would not let me cross over, for the bridge 
threatened every moment to go down with the waves. 
I remained a while with the men who were guarding 
the bridge and watched them as they examined, by the 
dark red light of their torches, the rising of the water 
on the piers of the bridge. 

^What is that swimming there?’ cried one of the 
men suddenly as he threw the light of his torch as low 
as possible down over the stream, and when I heard this 
I rushed to the railing and I believe I uttered a cry. 

^‘It was again an unnecessary fright, for what came 
rushing along was nothing more than a young birch 


^afttain’a Hast OIl|Ud 


57 


tree which the stream had somewhere torn out of the 
ground and carried along in its course. It was strange 
indeed to see how the branches of the young tree-top 
rose from the water so that from a distance they looked 
almost like outstretched arms imploring help. Ashamed 
of my weakness before the people, although they had no 
doubt been entirely too excited to pay any attention to 
it, I now w^ent home. 

^‘The night passed without any disaster occurring; 
the water began to fall as rapidly as it had risen, and 
when morning dawned the danger was passed. During 
the forenoon, for you will remember it was now vacation 
time, I started out to see how my old dike had with- 
stood the high water. When I had gone only a short 
distance I saw, about two hundred paces beyond me, a 
group of people standing at the edge of the dike and 
looking down at something which seemed to be in the 
stream below. At this place there was a thicket of 
alders and willows. ‘The dike has probably sprung a 
leak,' I said to a workman who came towards me from 
the place. 

“ ‘No,' he said, ‘it is a child.' 

“ ‘A child !' I exclaimed, but he had already passed on. 

“My heart suddenly seemed to stand still and the dike 
under my feet seemed to begin to rock. I do not know 
whether I ran or walked ; I only know that I approached 
the people who crowded together that I might look down 
and then, without a word, I was forced to sit down on 


58 


OIaptaitt*0 HaBt 


the edge of the dike, for it suddenly grew dark before 
my eyes. 

‘It is the captain’s child,” I heard the people whis- 
pering to each other — yes, it was the captain’s child — 
the last one. 

“Below in the thicket, wedged in between two wil- 
lows, his head just visible but the rest of his body still 
covered with water, lay Mannchen — and he was dead. 

“No one knows or ever will know how he came to be 
there; it may have been a mis-step that hurled him 
below, for no one saw it. But often during sleepless 
nights I hear him crying again and see him nod his 
little head with the sad expression : ‘I know well enough 
how it stands’ — and then there rises within me a terrible 
whispering voice which tries to persuade me that it was 
no mis-step; that it was something else which caused 
him to take refuge down there, away from this earth 
where no one cared for him any more, this child whose 
only fault was that he alone was left of all his brothers. 

“When we had released from the thicket the limbs of 
the boy, made clammy and rigid by the coldness of the 
water and of death, and had carried him up the dike, I 
saw a man running hastily toward us through the gar- 
dens behind the houses which lay in the lowlands along 
the dike. It was the captain. His head was bare and 
the wind blew through his black hair. He wore no 
sword — only an overcoat, and this was but only half 
fastened. He came straight toward us, straight through 


Claptatn’a Slaat OlJjtlb 


59 


the gardens of the houses which lay between his home 
and the dike. He jumped over the fences which sepa- 
rated the gardens ; over the beds and plants he flew, and 
as he reached the lattice gate of the last garden, which 
was too high to leap over and which did not yield at once 
to pressure, he threw himself against it with such force 
that it broke. 

‘^As he came up the dike I heard his voice : ^Where ? 
Where? Where?’ he cried. 

‘‘The next moment he had torn the body of the boy 
out of my arms and pressed it violently to his breast 
and passionately kissed the pale, silent face of his dead 
child. The boy’s head lay against his heart, the wet 
blond hair hung down heavily, and before my soul rose 
the picture of the child as I saw it lying in its father’s 
arms when it was still alive and yet looked as though it 
were already dead. 

“The men stood silent, gathered together in one shy 
group and offered the tribute of silent reverence to the 
colossal human woe which was unfolded before their 
eyes. 

“The captain did not even glance at us, he seemed 
hardly to know that we were there; with a desolate look 
he gazed beyond his child, up into the gray heavens, 
where the clouds were moving along in ragged masses. 
Then he tore open his overcoat and drew the cold form 
of the boy as far as possible within it, as if to warm the 


60 


gIaptain*B Saat 


dead limbs against his own warm body, and thus he 
started with him on the road. 

‘^JSTo one ventured to help him, no one dared to inter- 
fere. We let him have his way, for we felt our utter 
helplessness in the presence of such deep despair. 

looked after him as he hurried along with his load, 
blind to the curious crowd which had meanwhile as- 
sembled, deaf to the murmuring and whispering about 
him, and as I saw him staggering along the thought 
came to me that he had now reached the place which he 
had longed for when he lamented that he could not put 
an end to his existence and be buried with his children. 
I had now become so accustomed to and prepared for the 
gruesome that I should not have been surprised if they 
had brought me the news that he had followed his boys. 
It is possible that his superior officers had similar fears 
for him, for soon after this he received a commission 
which demanded his whole strength and took him away 
from our city for several months. When he returned 
from this commission the mobilization of the army had 
just been ordered; the war with France was impending. 

‘‘Now there would be guns and cannon to perform 
for him the friendly service which he so much desired. 
The reserves were called in and among them appeared 
a well-known face — that of Gottlieb Biinsch. He was 
assigned to the black captain’s battery and went with 
it to the field of battle. A few weeks later he returned 
to our city with a bullet wound in his leg which he had 


OIaptatn*g Sajst Ollytlb 


61 


received on the Hills of Spichern and which put an 
abrupt end to his military career. At my request he 
was brought to my home. I cared for him myself and 
I can say without boasting that I cared for him well. 

“On the list of the dead which reached us after that 
bloody day like a mournful echo of the glorious battle, 
the black captain’s name stood as the first of the fallen. 
His battery had been one of those which had made the 
impossible possible, which had climbed the hills of Spi- 
chern and had turned the tide of battle to victory. 

“ ‘We had no idea that we could do it,’ Gottlieb 
Bansch told me ; ‘but the captain was always in the lead 
and kept calling, “Courage boys, we’ll win.” ’ 

“Just at the moment when he had given the order to 
unlimber the guns, three bullets pierced his breast. 
Gottlieb Bansch wanted to carry him out of the thickest 
of the fight, but he said: ‘Never mind, Gottlieb, it is 
not necessary,’ and Gottlieb told us that he had never 
before seen such a look of contentment on the captain’s 
face. ‘Then as he grew weaker,’ Gottlieb continued, 
‘he took my hand and said: “Gottlieb, I thank you 
for all your kindness to my children, and when you get 
back home, go out where they are lying and look after 
their graves.”’ Gottlieb Bansch paused, ‘and then it 
was all over,’ he said. 

“As soon as he had recovered sufficiently to limp 
along, leaning on my arm, Gottlieb’s first walk was out 
to the place under the lilac bush where once three had 


62 


OIlj? Olaptaitt’B Slaat QII|tlb 


lain and where now four were lying. When we returned 
we found a summons for Gottlieb Biinsch to appear the 
next morning before the court. The black captain had 
left a will there which had been opened. Gottlieb 
Biinsch evidently had something to do with it, but what 
it was we did not know. 

^‘^On the following morning we were to learn this. 
The will in which the black captain had given the last 
directions concerning his small estate contained these 
words: ^To my former attendant, the gunner Gottlieb 
Biinsch, I bequeath one thousand dollars as a token of my 
gratitude for all his kindness to my children. My wish 
for him is that he may some time have children of his own 
and that God will reward and bless him in them, and 
I hope that he will sometimes think of his old captain 
and his captain’s children.’ 

‘^‘^When the soldier heard this he covered his eyes 
with his broad hand and I saw the tears roll down be- 
tween his fingers. 

^Tt was a long time before he could compose himself, 
and as he arose he leaned heavily on my arm. When 
we were outside again he took his cotton handkerchief 
from his pocket and wiped his eyes. ^Yes,’ he said, ‘he 
couldn’t show it very well, but I always knew that he 
was a good man and loved his children.’ ” 



\ 


OCT 1 ISIO 


L 



